


Apres Nuit

by thecheekydragon



Series: Intimate Apparel [1]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Gen, Lingerie, M/M, Negligee, POV Stiles, derek is amused, intimate apparel, judging lingerie, lingerie boutique, mocked by inanimate silk, purple panties, push up bras, silk undies, stiles might have a women's underwear fetish, teenwolfwriters, tw3, writing exercise: place and character
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-12
Updated: 2013-01-12
Packaged: 2017-11-25 06:20:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,541
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/636009
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thecheekydragon/pseuds/thecheekydragon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stiles.  In a lingerie boutique.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Apres Nuit

**Author's Note:**

> This was written as part of a writing exercise (Place and Character) at the [Teen Wolf Writing Workshop](http://teenwolfwriters.livejournal.com). Thanks to all the TW3-ers for your critiques and feedback! <3

***

Stiles _never_ would have voluntarily set foot in this place. No siree. No way. Not even on a blue moon. (Well, maybe on a blue moon but that was _it_.)

But Lydia had basically _commanded_ that he meet her at the boutique after he was done “geeking around” (her words) at the video game store so Stiles could carry her bags and this week’s name brand purse while she finished shopping for ‘essentials’ for the upcoming spring formal dance. And it was no secret that whatever Lydia Martin told Stiles to do, he did. No arguments, no protests, no complaints. Just blind stupid obedience.

Of course, _Apres Nuit_ turned out to be a lingerie shop. And not just any lingerie shop, but one of those really fancy _boutiques_ where silk, lace and satin competed for dominance and underwear was snobbishly referred to as ‘intimate apparel’. 

It wasn’t like Stiles was _opposed_ to lingerie or anything. He rather liked it, in fact. When it was on the bodies of hot models displayed in the pages of glossy fashion (or, uh, other) magazines. Those images had certainly provided ample fodder for his night time fantasies. Stiles just wasn’t overly comfortable being surrounded by so much satin, silk, and lace in every shade and colour imaginable - _judging_ him, _mocking_ him. Because that silk negligee in that fetching colour of champagne pink draped over the headless but breasted display mannequin in the middle of the boutique was definitely judging him. And those push-up bras showcased on the wall opposite him, standing to attention in a neat line like brave little soldiers, were most certainly mocking him. 

He wet his lips with a dart of his tongue and glanced around the boutique in hopes of spotting Lydia. Everywhere he looked there were creams and shades of rose, the softer colours off-set by the somewhat richer hues of the lingerie. But Lydia was nowhere to be found amidst the reams of sexy fabric.

Maybe Lydia was in one of the changing rooms set to the back of the boutique, he thought. Stiles definitely did not let his imagination wander to the mental image of the strawberry-blonde goddess trying on some silk number because now even the _camisoles_ were casting a scrutinizing glance at him, probably at the negligee’s urging. He returned their disdainful stares with a defiant look of his own and traipsed to the change rooms at the back of the boutique, making sure to cut a wide path around the negligee-clad she-nequin. 

There were four rooms for changing, each marked by a cream-coloured wooden door on which dried pink roses and a sprig of tiny purple flowers hung. Stiles thought about calling out for Lydia but he didn’t want to disturb anybody in mid-change so he did the next best thing. He leaned over sideways to peer under the doors that the ten-inches from the floor allowed to see if he could spot Lydia’s bright red Raphael Youngs (and Lydia thought Stiles never listened to her when she talked fashion). Nope, no death-defying red heels under doors 1, 2, or 3 but the woman in Change Room 4 had a really nice pair of practical black Mary Janes that went with some soft-looking feet (weekly pedicure, he assessed) with brightly polished pink toenails.

“Can I help you?” asked an appropriately silky smooth but definitely clipped voice.

Stiles straightened up and tried not to look too guilty. “Uh, just browsing?” he offered.

The sales associate, whom Stiles noticed was unfairly model-attractive, raised an exquisitely plucked and pencilled eyebrow, clearly unimpressed. And really, what was with all the judginess about in here? It was perfectly normal for a teenage boy to be flitting around a lingerie boutique looking under change room doors for the friend who had commanded he be there to hold her purse.

Okay. So maybe that wasn’t exactly normal. It was, however, legit.

He gave the sales woman an awkward but hopefully charming (he was still working on perfecting this) smile. “I’ll just go browse, er...wait out there,” he said, jerking a thumb toward the entrance to the mall.

The sales woman smiled coolly at him, which told Stiles he hadn’t done a very good job of charming her. He made his way to the boutique entrance, resigned to wait for Lydia – who was obviously _late_ (Stiles mentally gasped) in meeting him.

He made it past the row of soldiering on push-up bras with residual resentment (they were still mocking him, those wired and padded menaces) and was about to pass through to the outer mall when something (or rather _someone_ ) caught his attention beyond the glass entrance of the boutique.

Wait. Was that...? Was that _Derek_? 

And indeed Derek Hale, Beacon Hills’ resident alpha werewolf and perpetual pain-in-Stiles’-ass, was coming out of a shop across from the boutique – a men’s clothing store which proclaimed “30% off all denim” in big red letters on no less than six signs hanging in the large window. He had a white plastic bag in his hand, stuffed full, and was looking down at a receipt, which he tucked into the pocket of his leather jacket before directing a glance up.

Stiles panicked, flailing at first (what could he say, it was a habit). Then, getting a hold of himself, he quickly ducked down behind a display table near the entrance. He squeezed his eyes shut, invoking the _I-can’t-see-you-you-can’t-see-me_ axiom, which was totally legit, okay?

He waited thirty seconds, during which he took several deep breaths and told himself Derek couldn’t possibly have seen him (because _that_ would just be totally embarrassing and Stiles had his eyes squeezed shut, remember?), before he cracked an eye open and peeked over the table.

This was when he realized that the display table he had ducked behind, wood painted with an antique white-wash, was full of women’s panties. He knew this mostly because his nose was level with a neat row of silk bikini briefs with lace embroidery ranging in colour from pearl sand to venetian blue to petal pink. It wasn’t just the colourful range of hues that caught his attention. His nose was also picking up a floral bouquet – a hint of rose and jasmine, he thought (a scented sachet nestled among the rows of panties perhaps?), a decidedly pleasing scent that was both sexy and romantic.

(He’d also noticed the price tag on the luxury underwear. Forty-two dollars. Really? For one pair of panties? Because Stiles was more of a three-for-ten underwear deal kind of guy.)

His internal debate with himself lasted all of ten seconds before Stiles plucked up the pair of lavender panties under his nose to indulge in a little tactile appreciation. He ran the tips of his fingers over the embroidered lace then trailed them down the side, rubbing the luxuriously soft silk between his thumb and forefinger.

 _Oh_ , that was nice.

“ _Stiles?_ ”

He startled out of his tactile indulgence and looked up to see Derek looming on the other side of the table, his eyebrows raised in question, the corner of his mouth tilting up with a hint of amusement.

“Uh...” Stiles shot to his feet, dropping the lavender panties onto the table like they were suddenly on fire. 

Derek stared at him then dropped his gaze to the lavender panties. He then flicked a glance back to Stiles.

There was definitely amusement in Derek’s hazel-green eyes, Stiles noted. It was just his luck that _Derek_ had caught him appreciating – okay, _fondling_ – women’s underwear. Freaking alpha werewolves and their tendency to pop up at the most inconvenient times.

“I’d go with those,” Derek advised, nodding his head at the panties Stiles had recently intimately bonded with. “Colour suits you,” he remarked and Stiles was sure it had to be tongue-in-cheek, though he hadn’t known Derek even had it in him to be cheeky.

“Really, lavender?” Stiles said stupidly. He had always thought he was more of a red or a green on the colour palette but he supposed a nice shade of purple might help bring his eyes out a bit.

“I think it’s more of a ‘light amethyst’ colour,” Derek corrected and yeah, he was definitely amused. He waved his hand in the direction of Stiles’ face. “Good colour to bring out the whisky colour of your eyes.”

Stiles gaped at him. Light amethyst? Whisky colour of his eyes? (Okay, he was being mocked by a werewolf now and it was almost more disturbing than being mocked by inanimate silk.)

Derek was grinning at him now and Stiles was torn between feeling absolutely mortified at having been caught feeling up a pair of women’s panties like a perv and actually feeling kind of pleased that Derek had noticed the particular shade of brown his eyes were.

“You know what?” Derek said suddenly, reaching across the table and snagging the delicate _light amethyst_ panties with a hook of his finger. “Let me buy these for you.”

Derek was at the boutique counter having the panties rung up and wrapped in tissue paper before Stiles had even had the chance to realize he was blinking and gaping like an idiot.

But hey. That was forty-two bucks Stiles wasn’t going to have to spend.

***


End file.
